No Exceptions
by brooklyn-babe1899
Summary: Sprace one-shot / Racetrack just wants to go to the races without any confrontation, but why should Spot let that happen? Is 'no strings attached' really possible?


Racetrack could feel the change jingle in his pockets. He silently smiled to himself as he walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. Grey skies and murky water couldn't ruin his mood. He was going to the races.

He became slightly more cautioned as he stepped on the Manhattan-Brooklyn boundary line. He knew Spot would probably have his back but who knew what the other newsies would do when their fear-instilling leader wasn't there. Racetrack's shoes made a squishing sound as boys hopped out of the water and splashed the wood of the dock. He held his head up and his teeth gleamed when people sneered at him. _Nothing_ could ruin his day at Sheepshead Bay, except maybe the King of Brooklyn himself: Spot Conlon.

The boy in question jumped down from his _thrown_ of crates in a rather graceful but attention-demanding fashion. Race nodded at him and tried to quickly make his way past everyone to get to the street. No such luck. Spot whipped his so called 'Pimp Cane' from his belt loop and smacked it against the wooden structure right in front of Racetrack's feet.

"Where do ya think you're going, Higgins? Everyone's gotta pay the fine: no exceptions." Spot commanded at his friend.

"Come on, Spot. I ain't got no marbles and ya know I need my money for my bets." Racetrack tried to refrain from whining.

"No exceptions" The leader repeated firmly and just as Race was about to give up and reach for his pockets, a classic smirk played across Spot's rose-colored lips. ", but maybe another form of payment can be arranged."

Racetrack chuckled lightly but knew his cheeks had brightened to a tomato color. They had a sort of silent agreement. Late nights in dark alleys with no strings attached. It'd been happening for about a month now. They shrugged it off as a "stress reliever" but neither of them would ever let the other know how much they depended on each other. On the inside they were just little boys with no one to love or be loved by. They kept their masks on unless they were alone together.

They left the docks, careful not to walk too closely, and made their way to their usual meeting place. It was perfect. Not in a romantic way but in a no-one-will-ever-find-us-here-and-we-finally-have-a-place-of-our-own kind of way. The alley was situated between an abandoned townhome and bakery that was only open from 5am to 2pm.

Spot kept his head forward in the direction of their destination but wanted to turn around and hold hands with Race. Spot Conlon didn't hold hands. Spot Conlon didn't fuck guys either but things change, he guessed. Sometimes he didn't even want to be "Spot Conlon King of Brooklyn". He wanted to be just Patrick Colon, kid who escaped poverty and abuse for more poverty but this time it came with love and loyalty. He stopped thinking of what could be and began acting on impulse.

Race was trying not to stare at Spot's back muscles tense as he walked, but it was either that or his ass and back muscles was less incriminating. He was too entranced with the other boy to notice Spot stop dead in his tracks. Next thing he knew, he had smashed right up against Spot's back. His collar bones came in contact with the bottom of the taller boy's shoulder blade and he sent himself to the ground. Spot had somehow managed to stay standing.

"Whoa there, tiger." Spot laughed but extended a helping hand down to his . . . friend?

"Why'd ya stop?" Race grasped his hand and regained balance. "We're not there yet."

Spot's demeanor had changed. He wasn't smiling or laughing but there was a certain glint in his eye. His eyes: Race could stare at them all day but right now was his chance to do more than stare. "Couldn't wait," Spot stated hurriedly and glanced back and forth to check for other people. He found his surroundings satisfactory and reached his hand to stroke Race's face in a way he hoped was gentle.

Spot's hand on his cheek was like sandpaper on satin, but Race didn't mind. He loved the feeling of Spot's calloused finger tips brushing across his cheekbone. Squinting turquoise oceans met widened chocolate orbs and their noses grazed. Spot made the first move in their fluid game of chess. His mouth encompassed Race's upper lip. They moved rhythmically to a lyric-less love song.

Race tugged loosely on Spot's bottom lip with his teeth. Spot nearly growled. Spot shoved them into the closest dark alleyway. He laced his fingers in the collar of Race's shirt and pulled him impossibly closer. He moved his hands under the top of his suitor's button-up. Race cringed because his chest still hurt from their previous collision. Spot's eyes softened from their antecedent lustful state.

His lips delicately lingered on Race's neck before he trailed his tongue the length of Racetrack's collarbone. The older boy gave an appreciative low moan in response. They each unbuttoned the other's shirt and shifted their suspenders over their shoulders. Spot reattached his lips to Race's neck and Racetrack ran his hand along the lean muscles of Spot's back he'd been so fascinated with earlier. He stopped himself at the dimples at the bottom of Spot's spine. He was about to retreat his hand when a whimpering sort of sound came from Spot and vibrated against his neck. He'd never felt so in control yet so vulnerable at the same time. He placed his hand slowly onto his lover's posterior. Spot softly bit into his neck. Race squeezed his ass lightly.

Spot felt too out of control. He decided to stick to his roots as leader. He moved his hand down the front of Racetrack, feeling every muscle tighten at his touch, and thumbed over his waistline. Race involuntarily bucked his hips into Spot's hand. Spot chuckled lowly. He unfastened his own trousers and grinned as Race's expression changed to that of an excited puppy.

Race bottomed. Race always bottomed. Well, someone had to and it certainly wasn't going to be Spot. He secretly loved being dominated by Spot but could hardly see himself admitting that. While Racetrack was contemplating his submissiveness, Spot noticed his expression as deep thought and decided to take his mind away from what was troubling him.

Spot felt as though he could see Race's muscle tissue tighten around every tendon and ligament in his abdominal region as he squirmed under Spot's eye. When he saw Racetrack's toned Apollo's belt he had to have him. He then hooked his thumbs into both Race's pants and underwear and pulled them down simultaneously. Racetrack's phallus was instantly liberated from the confines of his trousers and came close to smacking him in the bellybutton.

To be efficient, Spot simply pulled his shaft out of his fly and boxers. Racetrack turned to face one of the brick walls surrounding them to give his partner easier access and prepared himself for an intrusive yet wonderful experience. Witnessing Anthony shake lightly as if he were about to be blown away in nervousness made him guilty so Patrick Conlon took a leap of faith and decided to use something he'd been working on all month. As he positioned himself in front of the opening that was presented to him, he purred, "Io ti amo, tu sei il mio mondo. Perdona la mia abrasività." Anthony Higgins would've sworn he almost came right then and there. He didn't care in the slightest that Spot's grammar was a bit off, but just as his partner's penis entered his rectum, he suddenly came to an immensely crashing realization that he was in love.


End file.
